Ende des Krieges
by SoldierToger
Summary: I wonder about HOW the German POW, from Oregon, Malarkey meets in Day of Days BECAME a POW and this is the result of that curiousity.


**Disclaimer: **Ok ok *sigh* I do not own Band of Brothers nor the German character I am writing this about. I gave him a name since in the movie you never get to know it and I haven't read the book so if it's in there and you've read it, feel free to let me know what this German's actual name is. He was a real person from what I've read and this is just my idea of what he may have been like.

**Author****'****s note: **I originally wrote this as a character sketch essay for my Advanced Composition class. I really liked how it came out, though and have decided to revise it a bit to make it fit for a fanfic. I do not know German, though I wish I'd taken the class!! I tried to make the title of this fanfic "War's End" and it probably doesn't really say that, I try lol. If you know how to really say that please let me know! Also, I hope the rating is right for this fic…

**Summary: **In the second episode, "Day of Days" Malarkey meets a German POW from Eugene, Oregon. I wondered how he became a POW in the first place and this is my idea of what could've happened. [summaries suck]

**Ende**** des Krieges**

By: SoldatToger/LBM

      The MG42 cried out in retribution against the U.S. paratroopers invading its target sight, dealing death from the young Wehrmacht infantryman's strong hands with its rapid fire. The hard black metal body hummed against his grip as each bullet, one after another, was pulled through the chamber to be born again, screaming, from the end of the barrel. He had to squint since accompanying the bullets' violent readmission to the world was a bright flash, lighting up the barrel briefly like nightly bombs dropped upon cities by the Luftwaffe.

 His partner crouched by his side, feeding the ravenous maschinengewehr its belt of bullets. Friedrich Enders swiveled the MG around on its tripod, holding it tight to his shoulder as his finger pinned the trigger down without caution, 7.92x57mm caliber slugs tearing through what invading flesh they could catch, leaving behind puffs of scarlet mist to mark their entries. Gritting his teeth, nose filled with the acrid burning scent of the MG42, ears overcome by its metal shredding purr and the occasional thrown grenade's explosion breaking through the continuous exchange of lead, he continued to hurl volleys and do his part.

      The two-man MG team was positioned in one of the houses forming the medium farming area of Normandy its Company defended, somewhere north of Utah beach and not far from the artillery installation at Brecourt Manor. It was the night separating June 5th from June 6th 1944. From his kneeling position, Friedrich leaned hard on his right hip as he brought the vibrating barrel around to tear down three Americans, their animated silhouettes caught in the corner of his brown eyes, attempting to sneak around the side of the building. 

      Just as the last fell, a small sinister object came sailing in through the large downstairs window they occupied. It reminded him of the arc of a baseball tossed between players on their warm-ups. He'd played baseball at Oregon State University, the state where he was born and raised until his German family answered the call 'to return to the Fatherland'. That felt like so long ago, but he didn't have too much time to reminisce about his life before all this, it was just a flash, as his training took over, grabbing on like the German Shepard's teeth in the escapee's forearm.

      "Geh jetzt GRANATE!" Friedrich shouted, his eyes widening as he watched the grenade vanish into the shadows of the floor and somewhere hit the wooden paneling with a hollow _clunk_. The soldier's already pounding heart doubled its efforts as he desperately leapt for the window; it felt like someone had plunged their hand into his chest and was pumping his heart themselves. He knocked over the MG42, forgotten in its suddenly unusual silence and his dire need to get out of that room. Luckily, that adrenaline enforced effort managed to get him half-way out when the explosion hit. The room rocked and dust, dirt and wood erupted from the window -along with him- like some volcano fresh out of lava and left with only the rocks and soil of its mouth to vomit up.

      Friedrich landed awkwardly, almost face first, with a grunt onto the muddy sidewalk and laid there as the dirt and dust settled around him. His heart took a moment to slow down its frantic pace and he blinked his eyes as he assessed himself with as little movement as possible (mostly a check-up mentally). A little scratch somewhere on his hairline was all he could really feel, but he'd learned from three-and-a-half years in the Wehrmacht that major wounds were rarely first to volunteer their existence or positions. Inside he could hear the painful moans of his former partner and he figured it would be best to move; his gray uniform was in one piece with no new spots of red dye and he was out in the open. For now he appeared to be dead, but the moment he began to move, his strong and lean body lost its feigned lifelessness and the anger for his deceit came swiftly.

      Bullets whizzed over him, whistling through the now vacant window or punching small dents into the stone wall of the house next to him. Friedrich scrambled to his feet, one hand clutching the murky metal of his helmet, holding it down over his short dark tan hair. The harsh popping of American rifles chased him around the corner of the building, bullets ricocheting off the house, his brown boots sticking a little in the half-mud, half-dirt combination spread and sprinkled across the ground. 

      Now out of their sights, but nowhere near safe, and armed with only his knife, Friedrich made his way towards the next building where more of his comrades threw bullets at the invading Americans who had dropped from the sky like bales of hay thrown from the barn loft. He stopped at the corner of the house he himself had been defending and judged the situation. The main street of the little farming district separated him from the open door of the one-story barn he was trying to reach. Brows furrowed, he flexed his hands and glanced around, looking for any alternatives with as little hesitation time as possible. Nothing. No where else to go.

      He took a deep breath, face set, eyes focused on the door he tensed up and—nearly fell over backwards when a black figure suddenly filled his vision, hurtling from the other side of the corner. A shot cracked, like the black whip slashing solid rubber, and the shape jerked, stumbling in its desperate run and crumpled, spilling across the ground in a jumble of limbs. A German helmet rolled off before halting in the mud and falling over. Friedrich reached down to grab an out flung arm, part of the downed soldier had fallen on the safe side of the corner, and dragged him the rest of the way behind the dwelling. A hand sprang up to grab his uniform front, grasping it for life and he looked down into the frightened eyes of a soldier younger than he. Grimacing at what he saw, he clasp his own hand around the wrist of the dying boy (whose name now came to him as Dieter) not knowing what to _say_ and knowing there was nothing he could _do_. He did his best to keep a straight face, perhaps for the sake of confidence and the head dipped back, the hand loosing its grip. Friedrich let it fall and stood up, but not before he grabbed the rifle his comrade had still been holding.

      The boy's problems were over, but his were not; the Americans were advancing and he still had the muddy road to cross in order to reach the remainder of his platoon. The rest of his company was out manning the 105s and he ground his teeth thinking about their CO who had left them to hold those farmhouses with just one platoon and MG42.

He pushed the anger aside and concentrated on reaching that entrance when he saw a shadow move across that same open door, and it wasn't until then that he noticed most of the night was absurdly silent now. A line of five German soldiers came walking out of the doorway, arms raised above their heads. Two Americans came stalking after them, rifles held in hands. The second spotted him quickly and moved the business end of his weapon towards him. He watched the scene like it was in slow-motion and tensed, lifting his chin slightly, before exhaling when the soldier jerked the rifle's muzzle.  Friedrich quickly dropped the gun he'd picked up, not being the suicidal type, and copied the behavior of his captured comrades, shuffling over towards them. In a way, he was relieved as he trudged in the line, arms held loosely on his head now. 

For this POW, this war was over.

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All right. That's it, don't like the ending too much but I was rushing when I wrote the ending and right now I don't feel like fixing it up, just getting it up...probably redo it later or something. Feel free to review!! Hope you liked it, might write more on this guy…


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